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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



The Best Short Poems of the 
Nineteenth Century. 



The Best Short Poems of 
The Nineteenth Century 



BEING THE TWENTY-FIVE BEST 
SHORT POEMS AS SELECTED BY 
BALLOT BY COMPETENT CRITICS 



COMPILED BY 

/ 
WILLIAM S. LORD 

Author of "Blue and Gold," "Jingle and Jangle," etc. 




Fleming H. Revell Company 

Chicago : New York : Toronto 
1899 

1 



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Copyrighted 1899 by Fleming H.^Revell Company 

T^A^O COPIES HECT:iVfcLD. ' ^ ' 




SECOND COPV, 






NOTE. 



'ipWO hundred representative literary people were 
recently asked for a list of "twenty-five of the 
best short poems (limit fifty lines) written in the 
English language in the nineteenth century. " This 
request met with a ready response. Lists were 
received from prominent poets, critics, editors, edu- 
cators, and others interested in poetry. These lists 
were carefully prepared. The names of those who so 
kindly gave valuable time and study in preparing 
them would be given had not the request been made, 
in a number of instances, that the list submitted be 
considered confidential. This emphasizes the value 
of the verdict as being a perfectly free expression of 
the minds best qualified to judge of the merits of the 
poetry of the period. 

No individual list is given. The twenty-five poems 
which received the highest number of votes will, it is 
hoped, make an acceptable "nut-shell anthology." 
They are arranged in order according to the ballots 
cast, "The Chambered Nautilus," which received the 
highest vote, being number one on the list. 

A supplementary list of two hundred poems is 
arranged alphabetically by authors. These poems 
received votes, but none received enough to place it 
among the first twenty-five. 

It is, perhaps, worth}- of note that when these lists 
were prepared Mr. Kipling had not w^ritten "Reces- 
sional," which would undoubtedly, at this time, be 
placed well among the first. 

The names of Lowell, Longfellow- and Whittier do 



8 Note. 

not appear, while Bryant is represented by "To a 
Waterfowl," and not by "Thanatopsis. " America's 
bards number five, while Tennyson's name appears 
four times and Wordsworth's name three times. 

In the supplementary list Longfellow is represented 
by nine titles, Lowell by ten, Tennyson by fifteen, 
Wordsworth by six and W^hittier by five. 

Dr. Holmes's "Chambered Nautilus," Mrs. Howe's 
"Battle-Hymn of the Republic," and "Emerson's 
"Concord Fight" are published by permission of 
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the publishers of 
the works of Emerson and Holmes and of Mrs. 
Howe's poems. "Crossing the Bar" is reprinted from 
The Macmillan Company's complete edition of Lord 
Tennyson's poems. 

W. S. L. 

March, 1899, Evanston, 111. 



THE BEST SHORT POEMS OF 
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 



I, The Chambered Nautilus Oliver Wendell Holmes - 9 

a. The Bugle Song Alfred, Lord Tennyson - 11 

3. Crossing the Bar - - - - Alfred, Lord Tennyson - 12 

4. Battle Hymn of the Re- 

public Julia Ward Howe- - - - 13 

5. The IvOST Leader - - - - Robert Browning - - - - 15 

6. On First Looking into 

Chapman's Homer - - - John Keats 17 

7. Ode On a Grecian Urn- -John Keats 18 

8. " She was a Phantom of 

Delight" William Wordsworth - - 20 

9. "The World is Too Much 

With Us: Late and Soon" William Wordsworth - - 21 

10. A Musical Instrument- - Elizabeth Barrett Browning 22 

11. Light Francis William Bourdillon 24 

13. To A Waterfowl . - - . William Cullen Bryant - 25 

13. The Three Fishers - - - Charles Kingsley - - - - 27 

14. Lead, Kindly Light - - - John Henry Newman - - 28 

15. Israfel Edgar Allan Poe - - - - 29 

16. Tears, Idle Tears - - - - Alfred, Lord Tennyson - - 31 

17. Break, Break, Break - - Alfred, Lord Tennyson - • 32 

18. The Burial of Sir John 

Moore Charles Wolfe 33 

19. A Court Lady Elizabeth Barrett Browning 35 

20. Pros pice Robert Browning - - - - 39 

21. Concord Fight Ralph Waldo Emerson - - 40 

22. Aaou Ben Adhem - - - . Leigh Hunt 41 

23. Night Percy Bysshe Shelley - - - 42 

24. Night and Death - - - - Joseph Blanco White- - • 44 

25. Daffodils William Wordsworth - - 45 



The Best Short Poems 

OF THE 

Nineteenth Century. 

I. 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.* 

T^HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
Sails the unshadowed main, — 
The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purple wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings. 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ' 

* Copyright, Houghton, Miflain & Co. 
9 



lo The Best Short Poems 



Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining arch-way through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 



Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on my ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
sings: — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 
As the swift seasons roll ! 
Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 
— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
1809-1894. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. ii 

11. 

BUGLE SONG. 

HTHE splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
Which grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 
1809-1892. 



12 The Best Short Poems 

III. 

CROSSING THE BAR. 

CUNSET and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar 
When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no moaning of farewell. 

When I embark. 

For though from out our bourne of time and place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have crossed the bar. 

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 
1809-1892. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 13 



IV. 

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC* 

TV/riNE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 

^^^ the Lord; 

He is tramping out the vintage where the grapes of 

wrath are stored ! 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible 

swift sword ; 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred cir- 
cling camps ; 

They have builded him an altar in the evening dews 
and damps: 

I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and 
flaring lamps : 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of 

steel : 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal : 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 

his heel, 
Since God is marching on." 

* Copyrightv I ioughton, MiflSin & Co. 



14 The Best Short Poems 



He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judg- 
ment seat ; 

O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my 
feet! 

Our God is marching on. 



In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the 

sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and 

me: 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men 
free, 
While God is marching on. 

—Julia Ward Howe. 
1819 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 15 



V. 
THE LOST LEADER. 

JUST for a handful of silver he left us, 
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote ; 
They, with the gold to give, dol'd him out silver, 

So much was theirs who so little allow'd; 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 

Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! 
We that had lov'd him so, foUow'd him, honor'd him, 

Liv'd in his mild and magnificent eye, 
Learn'd his great language, caught his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 

Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from 
their graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the freeman, 

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 



We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence; 

Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre ; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence. 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more. 

One task more declin'd, one more footpath untrod, 
One more devil's- triumph and sorrow for angels. 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 



1 6 The Best Short Poems 



Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! 

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, 

Never glad confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gal- 
lantly, 
Menace our heart ere we master his own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 
Pardon'd in heaven, the first by the throne! 

— Robert Browning. 
1812-1890. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 17 



VI. 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO 

CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 

TV/rUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen , 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-brow'd Homer iniled as his demesne: 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 

— Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken; 
Or like stout Cortez — when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific, and all his men 

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

—John Keats. 
1795-1821. 



1 8 The Best Short Poems 

VII. 
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

T^HOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! 

Thou foster child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these? what maidens loath? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd. 
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
Forever piping songs forever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 19 



Forever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
Forever panting and forever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above, 
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 
To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What little town by river or sea-shore. 
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets forevermore 
Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 

With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 

As dost eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste. 

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 

—John Keats. 
1795-1821. 



20 The Best Short Poems 

VIII. 
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

HE was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May -time and the cheerful dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

1 saw her upon nearer view, 
A Spirit, yet a Woman, too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food, 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine ; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveler between life and death : 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 

A perfect woman, nobly plann'd 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of an angel-light. 

— William Wordsworth. 17 70- 1850. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 21 

IX. 
SONNET. 

npHIS world is too much with us: late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
Little we see of nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, — a sordid boon! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, — 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are upgathered now like sleeping flowers, — 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn: 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

— William Wordsworth. 
I 770- I 8 50. 



22 The Best Short Poems 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 

T117"HAT was he doing, the great god Pan, 

Down in the reeds by the river? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
Splashing and paddHng with hoofs of a goat. 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river. 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river: 

The limpid water turbidly ran, 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay. 

And the dragon-fly had fled away, 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 

While turbidly flow'd the river; 
And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can. 
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 

(How tall it stood in the river!) 
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man. 
Steadily from the outside ring, 
And notch 'd the poor dry empty thing 

In holes, as he sat by the river. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 23 

"This is the way," laugh'd the great god Pan, 

(Laugh'd while he sat by the river,) 
"The only way, since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed." 
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed. 
He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! 

Piercing sweet by the river ! 
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 
The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
And the lilies reviv'd, and the dragon-fly 

Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

To laugh as he sits by the river. 
Making a poet out of a man : 
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, — 
For the reed which grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the reeds in the river. 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 
1809-1861. 



24 The Best Short Poems 

XI. 
LIGHT. 

'T^HE night has a thousand eyes 

And the day but one, 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 
With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 
When love is done. 

— Francis William Bourdilloru 
1852 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 25 



XII. 
TO A WATERFOWL. 

AllTHITHER, 'midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last steps 
of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly seen against the distant sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean-side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night is near. 



26 The Best Short Poems 



And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone. 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright. 

— William Cullen Bryant. 
1 794-1 878. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 27 

XIII. 
THE THREE FISHERS. 

nPHREE fishers went sailing out into the West, 
"*' Out into the West as the sun went down ; 
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best; 
And the children stood watching them out of the 
town; 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And there's little to earn, and many to keep. 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, 

And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; 
They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the 
shower 
And the night rack came rolling up ragged and 
brown ! 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep. 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands. 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands 

For those who will never come back to the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep- 
And good by to the bar and its moaning. 

— Charles Kingsley. 
1819-1875. 



28 The Best Short Poems 

XIV 
LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. 

T EAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 

"^ Lead Thou me on ! 

The night is dark, and I am far from nome — 

Lead Thou me on ! 
Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on, 
I lov'd to choose and see my path; but now 

Lead thou me on ! 
I lov'd the garish day and, spite of fears, 
Pride rul'd my will: remember not past years. 

So long Thy power hath biess'd me, sure it stilf 

Will lead me on, 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone ; 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have lov'd long since, and lost awhile. 

— John Henry Newman. 
1801-1890. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 29 



XV 
ISRAFEL. 

TN Heaven a spirit doth dwell 

■■• "Whose heart-strings are a lute;' 

None sing so wildly well 

As the angel Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 

Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon, 

The enamoured moon 

Blushes with love. 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads, even. 

Which were seven) 

Pauses in Heaven. 

And they say (the starry choir 

And the other listening things) 

That Israfeli's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings — 

The trembling living wire 

Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod, 
Where deep thoughts are a duty — 
Where Love's a grown-up God — 
Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 
Which we worship in a star. 



30 The Best Short Poems 



Therefore, thou art not wrong, 
Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassioned song; 
To thee the laurels belong, 
Best bard, because the wisest ! 
Merrily live, and long ! 

The ecstasies above 
With thy burning measures suit — 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute — 
Well may the stars be mute ! 

Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I could dwell 

Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 

He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody. 

While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre within the sky. 

— Edgar Allan Poe. 
1811-1849. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 31 

XVI. 

TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 

T^EARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean; 
Tears from the depths of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 
I 809-1 892. 



32 The Best Short Poems 

XVII. 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 

"DREAK, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 
That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on, 

To the haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 
1809-1892. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 33 

XVIII. 
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

"Vr OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried: 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. • 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head, 
And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 



34 The Best Short Poems 



But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random g^n 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 

—Charles Wolfe. 
1791-1823. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 35 



XIX. 

A COURT LADY. 

ITER hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with 
■*■ ■"■ purple were dark, 

Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless 
spark. 

Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; 
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. 

Never was lady on earth more true as woman and 

wife, 
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners 

and life. 

She stood in the early morning, and said to her 

maidens, "Bring 
That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of 

the king. 

"Bring me the clasp of diamonds, lucid, clear of the 

mote. 
Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the 

small at the throat. 

"Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten 

the sleeves. 
Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow 

from the eaves. ' ' 



2,6 The Best Short Poems 



Gorgeous she enter 'd the sunlight which gather'd her 
up iu a flame, 

While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hos- 
pital came. 

In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, 
"Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place 
of a friend. ' ' 

Up she pass'd through the wards, and stood at a 

young man's bed: 
Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of 

his head. 

"Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou," 

she cried, 
And smiled like Italy on him: he dream'd in her face 

and died. 

Pale was his passing soul, she went on still to a 

second : 
H^ was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons 

were reckon 'd. 

Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were 

sorer. 
"Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes drove lightnings 

before her. 

"Austrian and priest had join'd to double and tighten 

the cord 
Able to bind thee, O strong one, — free by the stroke 

of a sword. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 37 



"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life over- 
cast 

To ripen our wine of the present, (too new, ) in glooms 
of the past. ' ' 

Down she stepp'd to a pallet where lay a face like a 

girl's, 
Young, and pathetic with dying, — a deep black hole 

in the curls, 

"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, 

dreaming in pain. 
Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of 

the slain?" 

Kind as a mother herself, she touch' d his cheeks with 

her hands : 
"Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she 

should weep as she stands." 

On she pass'd to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by 

a ball: 
Kneeling, , . . "O more than my brother! how shall 

I thank thee for all? 

"Each of the heroes around us, has fought for his 

land and line. 
But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a 

wrong not thine. 

"Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispos- 

sess'd: 
But blessed are those among nations, who dare to be 

strong for the rest !" 



38 The Best Short Poems 



Ever she pass'd on her way, and came to a couch 

where pin'd 
One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out 

of mind. 

Long she stood and gaz'd, and twice she tried at the 

name, 
But two great crystal tears were all that falter 'd and 

came. 

Only a tear for Venice? — she turn'd as in passion and 

loss. 
And stoop' d to his forehead and kiss'd it, as if she 

were kissing the cross. 

Faint with that strain of heart she mov'd on then to 

another, 
Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, 

my brother?" 

Holding his hand in hers: — "Out of the Piedmont 

lion 
Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweetest to live or 

to die on." 

Holding his cold rough hands, — "Well, oh, well have 

ye done 
In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble 

alone." 

Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet 

with a spring, — 
"That was a Piedmontese! and this is the Court o' 
the King." 

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
1809-1S61. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 39 

XX. 

PROSPICE. 

"pEAR death?— to feel the fog in my throat 

"*• The mist in my face, 

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place. 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go ; 
For the journey is done and the summit attain'd, 

And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so— one fight more. 

The best and the last ! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and for- 
bore, 

And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, 

The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end, 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave. 

Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be the rest ! 

— Robert Browning. 
18 1 2-1 890. 



40 The Best Short Poems 

XXI. 
CONCORD FIGHT.* 

"D Y the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream. 

We set to-day a votive stone ; 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 

To die, and leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

— Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
^1803-1882. 

• Copyright, Houghton, Mififlin & Co. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 41 

XXII. 
ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

A BOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) 
•^^ Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight of his room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made all of sweet accord. 
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low. 
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light, 
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, 
And lo! Ben Adhem 's name led all the rest. 

— Leigh Hunt. 
1784-1859. 



42 The Best Short Poems 



XXIII. 
NIGHT. 

C WIFTLY walk over the Western wave, 
'^ Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty Eastern cave, 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear ; 
Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day ! 
Kiss him until he be wearied out ; 
Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand ! 

Come, long sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree ; 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest 

I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

"Wouldst thou me?" 
Thy sweet child. Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee — 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 43 



"Shall I nestle by thy side? 
Wouldst thou me?" And I replied — 
No! not thee. 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon! 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night! 
Swift be thine approaching flight ! 
Come soon, soon ! 

— Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
1792-1822. 



44 The Best Short Poems 

XXIV. 

NIGHT AND DEATH. 

TV/TYSTERIOUS Night, when our first parent knew 
IVX Thee, from divine report, and heard thy name, 

Did he not tremble for this lovely Frame, 
This glorious canopy of Light and Blue? 
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew. 

Bathed in the ray of the great setting Flame, 

Hesperus with the Host of Heaven, came. 
And lo! Creation widened on Man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 

Within thy beams, O Sun ! or who could find 
Whilst flower, and leaf, and insect stood revealed. 

That to such countless Orbs thou mad'st us blind ! 
Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife? 
If Light can thus deceive wherefore not Life? 

^Joseph Blanco White, 
1773-1840. 



Of The Nineteenth Century. 45 

XXV. 
DAFFODILS. 

T WANDERED lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vale and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, ^ 

A host of golden daffodils, 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay ; 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee — 

A Poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company ! 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought ; 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

— William Wordsworth. 
1 7 70-1 850. 



SUPPLEMENTARY LIST 
NINETEENTH CENTURY POEMS. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD— 1822-1888. 

Dover Beach. 

Requiescat. 

Shakespeare. 

Cadmus and Harmonia, 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH— 1836 

Two Songs from the Persian. 

Identity. 

Nocturne. 
MRS. CECIL FRANCIS ALEXANDER— 182— 

The Burial of Moses. 
WILLIAM BLAKE— 1757-1728. 

The Tiger. 
ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES— 1844 

"My Song Be Like an Air." 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING — 1809- 
1861. 

A Valediction. 

Crowned and Buried. 
ROBERT BROWNING— 1812-1889. 

Meeting at Night. 

Evelyn Hope. 

Summum Bonum. 

Echetlos. 

Instans Tyrannus. 

A Toccata of Galuppi's. 

Home Thoughts from Abroad. 

My Star. 

My Last Duchess. 

How They Brought the Good News from 
Ghent to Aix. 

46 



Nineteenth Century Poems. 47 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT— 1 794-1 S7S. 

The Death of the Flowers. 

"Dream Not That Thou Art Blest." 

"Blessed Are They that Mourn." 

The Battlefield. 

Thanatopsis. 
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON— 1788 1824. 

On the Day I Complete My 36th Year. 

The Isles of Greece. 

Prisoner of Chillon (Sonnet). 

"Fare Thee Well and if Forever." 

The Destruction of Sennacherib. 

Maid of Athens. 
THOMAS CAMPBELL— 1777-1844. 

Hohenlinden. 

To the Evening Star. 
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH— 1819-1861. 

Peschiera. 
WILLIAM CORY— 1823-1892. 

Mimnermus in Church. 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE— 1772-1834. 

Youth and Age. 

Kubla Khan. 
G. W. CUTTER— 

The Song of Steam. 
CHARLES STUART CALVERLY— 1831-1884. 

Ballad — Butter and Eggs and a Pound of 
Cheese. 
THOMAS OSBURN DAVIS— 1814-1845. 

Fontenoy. 
EMILY DICKINSON— 1830-1886. 

Success. 
SIDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL— 1824-1874. 

How's My Boy? 
AUSTIN DOBSON— 1840 

Ars Victrix. 

"Once, at the Angelus." 

At the Convent Gate. 
CONAN DOYLE— 1859 

The Song of the Bow. 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE— 1795-1820. 

The American Flag. 
GEORGE ELIOT (Mrs. Lewes)— 1S19-1880. 

Nay, Never Falter. 



48 Supplementary List. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON— 1803-18S2. 

The Rhodora. 

Brahma. 

Each and All. 

Days. 
EUGENE FIELD— 1850-1895. 

The Rockaby Lady. 
JAMES T. FIELDS— i8i6-i88i. 

The First Appearance at the Odeon. 
W. S. GILBERT— 1836 

The Nancy Brig. 
ARCHIBALD GORDON— 

Grenada — A Song of Exile. 
HOMER GREENE— 1853 

What My Lover Said. 
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK— 1790-1867. 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake. 
BRET HARTE— 1839 

The Heathen Chinee. 

The Mountain Heartsease. 
JOHN HAY— 1838 

The Lorelei (translation). 

Little Breeches. 
FELICIA D. HEMANS— 1794-1835. 

Casablanca. 
JAMES HOGG— 1722-1835. 

The Skylark. 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES-1809-1894. 

The Last Leaf. 
THOMAS HOOD— 1799-1845. 

Ruth. 

"I Remember, I Remember." 

The Bridge of Sighs. 

The Death Bed. 
LEIGH HUNT— 1784-1859. 

Jenny Kissed Me. 
JEAN INGELOW— about 1830. 

Exultation (Songs of Seven). 
JOHN KEATS— 1795-1821. 

Ode to a Nightingale. 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci. 

"Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast as 
Thou Art." 

Drear-Nighted December. 



Nineteenth Century Poems. 49 



COAXES KINNEY— 1826 

Rain on the Roof. 
CHARLES KINGSLEY— 1S19-1S75. 

A Farewell. 
RUDYARD KIPLING— 1865 

Hymn Before Action. 
CHARLES LAMB— 1775-1834. 

The Old Familiar Faces. 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR— 1775-1864. 

The Death of Artemidora. 

Rose Aylmer. 
SYDNEY LANIER— 1842-18S1. 

The Song of the Chattahoochee. 
WALTER LARNED— 1847 

The Tryst. 
AMY LEVY— 

"All the Night I Dreamed of You." 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW— 1 807-1882. 

The Day is Done. 

Excelsior. 

The Bridge. 

"In the Long Sleepless Watches." 

"By His Evening Fire the Artist." 

"There is no Flock, However Watched and 
Tended." 

The Psalm of Life. 

Weariness. 

The Rainy Day. 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL— 1819-1891. 

Si Decendero in Infernum, Ades. 

The First Snow-Fail. 

Villa Franca. 

She Came and Went. 

Stanzas on Freedom. 

My Love. 

Hunger and Cold. 

Aladdin. 

The Darkened Mind. 

Mahmood the Image Breaker. 
THOMAS B. MACAULAY— 1800-1859. 

The Battle of Ivry. 

PHILIP BURKE MARSTON— 1850-1887. 
Thy Garden. 



50 Supplementary List. 



GUY H. McMASTER— 1829-18S7. 

Carmen Bellicosum. 
GEORGE MEREDITH— 1828 

Lucifer in Starlight. 
ALICE MEYNELL— 

Renouncement. 
F. B. MONEY-COUTTS— 

The Dawn. 
THOMAS MOORE— 1779-1852. 

Love's Young Dream. 

Oft in the Stilly Night. 

The Bird Let Loose. 
WILLIAM MORRIS— 1834-1897. 

From the Upland to the Sea. 
COVENTRY PATMORE— 1823 

The Toys. 
EDGAR A. POE— 1811-1849. 

Eulalie. 

The Raven. 

Annabel Lee. 
ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR— 1825-1864. 

The Lost Chord. 

Expectation. 
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH— 1863 

The Marine. 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY— 1853 

When She Comes Home. 
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI— 1830-1894. 

Fluttered Wings. 

Old and New Year Ditties. 

The World. 
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI— 1828-1882. 

A Superscription. 

The Blessed Damosel. 

The Cloud Confines. 

Mary's Girlhood. 
C. D. G. ROBERTS— 1860 

The Isles. 
SIR WALTER SCOTT— 1771-1832. 

Lochinvar. 

"Soldier, Rest! thy Warfare O'er." 

A Weary Lot is Thine. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. 



Nineteenth Century Poems. 51 



WILLIAM SHARP— 1856 

White Violets. 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY— 1792-1822. 

Ozymandias. 

To a Cloud. 

A Lament. 

Lines on an Indian Air. 

"Music When Soft Voices Vie." 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty. 
EDMUND C. STEDMAN— 1833 

The Hand of Lincoln. 

The Undiscovered Country. 
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD— 1825 

Lost Youth. 
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL— 1841-1887. 

Evening. 

The Fool's Prayer. 
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE— 1837 

The Pilgrims. 

A Baby's Hands. 

A Match. 

"Before the Beginning of Years." 

A Forsaken Garden. 
BAYARD TAYLOR— 1825-1878. 

The Song of the Camp. 

Autumnal Dreams. 
ALFRED TENNYSON— 1809-1892. 

The Charge of the Light Brigade. 

"Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights." 

"Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead." 

Sir Galahad. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

"Ring Out, Wild Bells." 

The Sisters. 

To the Queen. 

"O Swallow, Swallow, Flying, Flying 
South." 

"Ask Me no More." 

Sweet and Low. 

The Higher Pantheism. 

"Short Sweet Idyl." 

The Sally from Coventry. 

The New Timon and the Poets. 



52 Supplementary List. 



BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR— 1819-1887. 

The Isles of Long Ago. 
WILLIAM M. THACKERAY— 181 1-1863. 

The Age of Wisdom. 
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER— 1808-1879. 

Letty's Globe (Sonnet). 
THEODORE WATTS— 1836 

The First Kiss. 
WILLIAM WATvSON— 1858 

England to Ireland. 

The First Skylark of Spring. 

Cromwell. 
JOHN G. WHITTIER— 1807-1892. 

Barbara Frietchie. 

Ichabod. 

Two Angels. 

Skipper Ireson's Ride. 

Telling the Bees. 
ELIZABETH WHITTIER— 1815-1864. 

Charity. 
MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY— 1824 

Behind the Mask. 
WALT WHITMAN— 1819-1892. 

To the Man of War Bird. 
OSCAR WILDE— 1S56 

Requiescat. 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH— 1770-1850. 

Westminster Bridge. 

"Three Years She Grew." 

To a Skylark. 

"Scorn Not the Sonnet." 

Milton (Sonnet). 

London (Sonnet). 



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Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Jan. 2009 

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